


Every Action Has Its Equal Opposite Reaction

by moboe



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, College AU, Declarations Of Love, Doctor John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, First Kiss, Fluff, Gay, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Modern AU, References to Starvation, self-deprecation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 06:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8390983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moboe/pseuds/moboe
Summary: Alex has always been hungry. Now, however, he's hungry for something else.





	

_Hunger_  was something Alexander was accustomed to. On Nevis, he’d barely ever had enough money for a decent meal. He lived paycheck to paycheck--essay to essay--and it’s safe to say that conditions like those aren’t conducive to regularly scheduled meals. But God must have a sick sense of humor, because then a hurricane ripped through his own--

 

(Crashing, cracking, rumbling, crumbling)

 

\--and he didn’t have a home, or a roof over his head. What he knew was writing, and writing was what he did. The town noticed him. They read his work, recognized his talent and potential, knew he could make a name for them, and volunteered all the money they could afford to send him to the United States.

 

(Generous, plenteous, nervousness)

 

And hunger was something that he had come to expect. It was a part of him. It was the one constant in his life. He didn’t like it--God, he hated being hungry--but he was so used to it by now that he sometimes didn’t even notice it.

 

Then. Then, he met John Laurens, and suddenly a new hunger. One he couldn’t explain with the words he used so eloquently, that got him out of that hellhole in the Caribbean. They shook hands and Alexander gripped John’s arm, holding him still for just a moment so he could gaze into his eyes a little too intimately, if only to prove to himself that this _was_ something different, that he didn’t just need a piece of bread to tide over starvation.

 

*

 

It was 2016, and Alexander Hamilton was in love with John Laurens. He hated himself for it--John deserved better, someone who took care of himself, someone who had enough money and class and a family to go home to on Christmas break. John deserved better. So for once in his goddamn life, Alex kept his mouth shut.

 

He repressed it--decided that was the only way to make himself quiet about the subject (so he wouldn’t bring it up in every lull in conversation:

 

“Do you know how much I love John Laurens?”

 

“God, Alex, yes, you never shut the fuck up about it.”)

 

So Alexander was in love with John. And only half aware of it.

 

(John Laurens, however, was in love with Alexander, and fully aware of it.)

 

*

 

It happened the night Jefferson ran his mouth just a little too much.

 

No, that’s not nearly specific enough. It happened during finals week of the second semester of Alex and John’s junior year at Columbia. Everyone else was studying. Everyone else was smarter, in that moment, than Alexander Hamilton. Because Alexander Hamilton was instigating a fight with Thomas Jefferson.

 

“You can’t just _say_ that shit!”

 

“Didn’t I just?”

 

Alexander growled in frustration. Anyone who knew him would know by the clench of his fists that it was only going to get worse from here. “Fine,” he snarled. “You can’t just say that and expect me _not_ to punch you in your fucking mouth.”

 

Jefferson looked affronted. “Such naughty language,” he replied, tutting his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Did you kiss your whore mother with that mouth?”

 

*

 

Quiet rapping at the door woke John from his studious stupor. His anatomy textbook was open in front of him, and his eyes had been grazing over the same passage for about 15 minutes.

 

The knocking was timid. Almost like the person on the other side didn’t want him to answer. Still, John heaved himself out from behind his desk, and stumbled toward the door, taking a peek out of the peephole. When he caught a glimpse of what was waiting for him, he scrambled with the locks, pulling the door open too quickly and almost hitting himself in the face with it.

 

“Alex!” he whisper-shouted, reaching out to tug the beaten man inside, before dropping his hands, afraid to touch, afraid of unseen damage.

 

“Can I come in?” the idiot asked, and his voice was weak.

 

John took a step back. “Yes, please do, I was just--”

 

“You were studying. I interrupted,” he finished, a sad lilt to his voice like he knew he’d disappointed someone.

 

“Well, yes and no. Studying was my intention, but…” John huffed. Why were they talking about his studying habits when Alex was bleeding? “What happened to you?”

 

Alexander turned his bruised focus to John. “What’s your first guess?”

 

John sighed. “Jefferson?”

 

Alex grimaced. “Bingo.”

 

This was a common occurrence amongst John and Alexander (Alex showing up beaten and pissed), which is what led Alex to sigh dejectedly and head toward the bathroom, where the first-aid was kept. John followed close behind.

 

“What did he do this time?”

 

“What _didn’t_ he do?” Alex stiffened angrily, but quickly deflated. “I’m not even sure, John. He said something… something offensive. I called him out. He insulted me, and I threw the first punch.”

 

“Alex…”

 

“I know, okay? Can we just get this over with?”

 

John fell silent. It was so unlike Alex to not want to talk about it, that John couldn’t find it within himself to push for more information.

 

Alexander took his spot on the edge of the tub without another word, and John followed suit, retrieving the first aid kit and going to work.

 

The room was filled with pained hisses and hushed apologies. As John worked his way down Alex’s body, checking for other injuries, he was unable to control his facial expression--one of agonizing sympathy.

 

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” he admonished, lips pressed into a thin line.

 

Alex merely hummed in response.

 

Next, John inspected Alexander’s wrist, which he was cradling close to his body. John wanted to kick Thomas’ ass for hurting Alex like this, but his first priority was Alexander. Always Alexander. He attempted to move Alex’s hand, but the man let out an undignified yelp of pain, and John immediately pulled back, letting out a sigh.

 

“It may be broken.”

 

“No.”

 

John looked up tiredly, and he could see a flame caught in Alexander’s brown eyes, the same intelligent eyes he fell in love with. “Alex. If it’s broken, there’s nothing I can do.”

 

“Well it’s a good thing it’s not broken then.” Alex clenched his uninjured hand into a fist. John sighed and ran a hand through his mess of curls.

 

“If It’s broken, it’s broken. And no amount of arguing is going to change that.” John rose back to his feet, turning to wash his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Alex deflating.

 

Arguing was all Alex knew how to do. And if he didn’t have that, what did he have? It took a moment, but eventually John managed to take in Alex’s image as a whole--bruised, crumpled form, hair barely pulled back into a bun (he likely had been unable to fix it after the fight due to his damaged wrist), the very definition of a “kicked puppy.”

 

This is what led John to say, “Stay here tonight. I’ll take you to the hospital in the morning.”

 

However, Alex was shaking his head before John was even done speaking. “No, John, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” He stood from his place on the tub, legs a little shaky (completely drained after his adrenaline had worn off), and started in the direction of the door.

 

John, of course, was just a teensy bit faster, and he blocked the way. “Where do you think you’re going? You’re staying here so I can make sure you don’t have a concussion. And in the morning, I’m taking you to the hospital.”

 

Alex’s cheeks heated, and he cleared his throat. “John, let me through.”

 

“No.”

 

This time, Alexander huffed in agitation. He looked down towards the ground and mumbled something unintelligible.

 

John leaned closer. “What?”

 

Alex’s gaze snapped upwards, and he was glowering. “I can’t afford a fucking hospital visit, John.”

 

For a moment, they were both silent. Of course, John had always been aware of Alex’s financial predicament, but maybe not to this extent. Alex always claimed to “forget” to eat, but maybe he just didn’t have the money for food.

 

And it wasn’t as though John was wealthy. But he had a family that he could lean on, if worst came to worst. The only thing stopping John was his pride. It was obviously different for Alex. (He didn’t know the extent of Alex’s story, after all. Only that he emigrated from the Caribbean, and he was one hell of a writer. Alex wasn’t exactly forthcoming with details of his past.)

 

After a significant moment of silence, Alex made a displeased noise. “I don’t need your pity. Just move.” He paused. “Please.” His voice was more broken as he begged.

 

But John wasn’t backing down. “So you come to me in the middle of the night, hurt and upset, and what? I’m just supposed to give you a Band-aid and send you on your way?”

 

Alex clenched his jaw. “You’re getting your medical degree. That’s what you’re going to have to do all day. Might as well get used to it.”

 

If John’s gaze could have burned, Alex would have been nothing but a pile of ash. “You’re not my patient, and I’m not your doctor. You are my best friend, and I’m _going_ to care about you, goddamn it. So why don’t you sit your happy ass back down and let me check you for a fucking concussion.” It wasn’t really a question.

 

Alex had seen John like this before, but it had never been directed at him. He swallowed roughly, a little scared, and went to sit back down.

 

John let out a sigh of relief.

 

*

 

“Alex, eat it.”

 

“No.”

 

“Alex, I’m asking nicely. Eat. It.”

 

“I’m not hungry.”

 

The grumbling of an empty stomach permeated between them.

 

“You are hungry! Why won’t you eat?”

 

Silence.

 

“Alexander…”

 

“I don’t need you to do this for me. I can get food on my own.”

 

“...I know.”

 

A heavy sigh from the obviously hungry one.

 

A smile from John. “Thank you.”

 

*

 

Fear was something Alexander was accustomed to. On Nevis, he could first remember fear erupting from his throat in the form of screams. Then, when accusations were made about his mother, his fear showed itself in punches. At twelve years old, the way he clutched his mother. Then, more screams at her unseeing eyes. A eulogy at his cousin’s funeral. The way wind whipped his home out from under him.

 

Fear was more constant, he thought, than hunger.

 

His eyes flew open. His heart slammed in his chest. His lungs seized around air. He could feel a hand, steadying, on his shoulder. Tears roll down his cheeks in waves--fucking waves, crashing, destroying, so cold--

 

“Alex. Alex, it’s okay--you’re okay. You’re in New York.”

 

He turned his gaze to John--beautiful, lovely John. Always there for him, always caring. Alex loved him.

 

He sat up. No. No no no. He couldn’t love John.

 

“Alex…”

 

“No--” he gasped. “Get away.”

 

John looked hurt. “What?”

 

“Don’t--don’t, please.”

 

“Alex, what are you talking about?”

 

“You’ll die.” Alex tangled his uninjured hand in his hair and pulled. “You’ll die.”

 

John didn’t understand. And Alex didn’t want to explain. “Alex, please. I’m fine, I promise. It was just a dream.”

 

Alex shook his head. “You don’t get it,” he hissed, and John was inclined to agree.

 

“Then explain it to me.” The words were soft, but insistent. John wasn’t asking or pleading, he was demanding. In response, Alex made a pained sound in the back of his throat. “Alex.”

 

And that was all it took.

 

“I’m a bastard orphan with no family or remaining friends from the Caribbean.” He was gasping. “Do you know _why_?!”

 

John, however, was calm as he spoke. “There was a hurricane, Alexander.”

 

“Yes!” Alex exclaimed, pulling his hand away from his hair to gesture wildly. “A hurricane. After… after my mother died of an illness she had contracted from me. After my father left us with nothing. After…”

 

John hesitantly placed a hand on Alex’s forearm, urging him to continue.

 

“After I found my cousin hanging in the attic.”

 

John’s gasp was like a gunshot. Alex flinched. He expected John to pull his hand away, to finally understand and want to be as far from Alex as possible. Instead, the grip on his arm tightened.

 

“I’m sorry,” John whispered.

 

“Me, too,” Alex breathed, wondering how many times he had apologized to the dead in this way, awake in the middle of the night, hunched over himself. He let out a slow, sad sigh, and looked back to John. “Do you understand now?”

 

But John just looked confused. “No.” He paused. “Alex, you’ve had a hard life, but I don’t understand why you’re pushing me away.”

 

Alex groaned lowly. “Listen to my story, John. Bad things don’t happen to _me._ They happen around me. They happen to people I’m with. They happen to people that I…”

 

John’s brows pulled together in confusion. “That you…?”

 

Alex swallowed roughly. “Love.”

 

The word was small, scared, and unsure. John’s lips parted in surprise.

 

“I can’t lose you.”

 

John remained at a loss for words. Love?

 

“I’m sorry,” Alex whispered.

 

At that, John immediately sprung into action. “What? Why? Alex, why are you sorry?”

 

Alex looked down and away. “Because I love you.”

 

John huffed, shaking his head. “Alexander Hamilton, you must be the most oblivious man on the planet.”

 

“What--?”

 

And just like that, John leaned forward and kissed him--kissed Alex’s broken lips and cupped his bruised jaw. For a moment, Alexander melted, eyes slipping closed and a tiny sound leaving his throat--his lips were sore, but that didn’t stop him from pressing closer and gripping at John’s shirt with his uninjured hand. And then, he seemed to realize what was happening, because he pushed away, eyes wide, fingers coming up to brush over his lips.

 

“Why did you do that?” he whispered, eyes welling with tears.

 

John, suddenly terrified he had hurt Alexander, stuttered. “I--I thought it was obvious. I love you.”

 

Alex shook his head. “John, no.” The tears spilled over, rolling down his cheeks. “Loving me is a… it’s a death wish.”

 

John didn’t skip a beat. “Lord, strike me down.”

 

“Stop it! I’m not kidding!”

 

John’s eyes went hard. “Neither am I, Lex. You’re everything to me. You fill the gaping hole in my chest that I didn’t even realize was there until I met you. You’re home. I’d do anything for you, including risking death.”

 

Alex seemed very small in that moment. “I won’t let you,” he said, voice quiet.

 

“It’s not your choice. Regardless of if I get to hold you and kiss you like I want to, I’m still going to love you.”

 

Alex let out a dissatisfied whine.

 

“Let yourself be happy for once, Lex."

 

Alexander squeezed his eyes shut. What would Mamá say? Probably that he was thinking too hard and that he needed to go after what he wanted, fuck the consequences. Well, maybe not exactly those words, but the gist would’ve remained the same.

 

“Kiss me again,” he requested, opening his eyes.

 

“What?”

 

“Kiss me again. I have to figure out if this is worth it.”

 

John let out a little surprised noise, then surged forward with little hesitation, their mouths crashing together magnificently, more heated than the kiss before. Alex buried the fingers of his uninjured hand in John’s dark curls, pulling him closer; he needed the closeness, the touch, the intimacy. When John’s tongue brushed across the seam of his lips, all bets were off. Alex let out a breathy moan, which urged John forth, cupping either side of Alex’s face before--

 

“Shit!” Alex pulled back, hissing in pain. John had barely brushed Alexander’s wrist, but it was now throbbing.

 

“Fuck, baby, are you okay?” John asked, worry apparent in his eyes.

 

Alex however, was focused on something else. “Baby?”

 

John’s mouth popped open, no explanation on the tip of his tongue. “I… I just, um. Sorry.”

 

Alex’s lips curved into a bruised smile, and his cheeks warmed pleasantly with a blush. “Don’t be,” he whispered. “I’m fine, by the way, I just--my wrist really hurts.”

 

“I’m sorry,” John repeated, brushing a soft kiss over the swollen wrist. “We’ll get you to the hospital in the morning.” He sighed. “Lay back down. I won’t leave you.”

 

“Promise?” Alex asked as he laid back.

 

“Promise.”

 

*

 

Not all was good. It never would be. But when Alexander gets his bright blue cast, John signs it with a heart and Alex rolls his eyes.

  
John may or may not punch the shit out of Jefferson. And when he’s done, Alex gives a kiss to John’s knuckles.


End file.
